"I went down to the little farm and brought away my boy—my little Robert. For two years he had never seen me, and had forgotten his mother. I brought him away from his friends, from all the pure, simple influence that surrounded him there, from the innocent joys of country life, from the wholesome atmosphere of honest toil and labor—brought him up to dwell in the abode of one whose hands were dyed with crime, brought him within the baleful influence of his mother's teaching. Too late now—too late; but as I see it all at this moment, it had been better to beg, better to die, than have brought him within the shadow of that man's gold.
"Once more my husband burst upon me. He was jealous, he said, jealous of my master, and he insisted upon knowing where his child was. With false promises I got rid of him. It was late in the evening when he came and went. He had a companion with him—an ill-looking Irishman, named Sullivan. That night the house was broken into. Being roused, I surprised one of the burglars retreating; he was the image of my husband, and yet it was not he, I felt convinced. But it gave me an idea. If I could swear to him and he were taken, he would be transported, and I should be free from [{238}] him, at least for a time. I helped Inspector Keene to detect him by means of anonymous letters, and then swore to his identity. He was condemned and sentenced to twenty years' penal servitude. I have not much more to tell, up to last October.
"The two boys grew up together into young men—one the real, the other the pretended nephew of Mr. Thorneley—and as his joint heirs. Of his own son nothing was seen, nothing heard; he might have been dead, but that I knew he was not. If Lister Wilmot had only succeeded to one-half of Gilbert Thorneley's fortune his future would have been amply, brilliantly provided for. I coveted more for my son; he coveted more for himself. In those days he never knew I was his mother; but I had tended him when a child, and he used to confide in me. It was the only sweetness I ever tasted amidst the cup of bitterness I had prepared myself. He was proud and ambitious; I dared not tell him who he was. So he grew up in ignorance of our relative positions—he, the reputed nephew and joint heir of the richest man in England; I, his mother, that man's housekeeper and servant. He confided in me; and shortly after Mr. Hugh Atherton's engagement to Miss Leslie, I wormed from him that he too loved her. This and some money difficulties he got into at that time were harassing him sorely. I could not see my boy suffer and not try to help him—I could not see him thwarted in his love; and one day I went to his chambers and told him I possessed a secret of his uncle's, and would use it in his favor. He then said how jealous he was of his cousin, how fearful he felt lest Atherton, being Thorneley's favorite nephew, should at last be left sole heir. That evening I once more sought my master; and using all the power I had over him, extorted from him an oath that, with the exception of a nominal sum left to Mr. Atherton, a will in favor of my son as his sole heir should be made on the morrow. This was done. That will was read on the day of the funeral. After making it my master never seemed well or at ease; and day by day, hour by hour, I watched him in fear and dread lest he should revoke it. We were both hurried on mysteriously to our fate.
"On the 23d of October last Mr. Thorneley received a visit from Mr. John Kavanagh in Wimpole street. I misdoubted the object of the interview; watched, listened, and overheard in great part what took place. The sending for the two men servants, and their saying on returning to the kitchen that they had been signing their names to something which looked like a will, confirmed my suspicious. Then the devil once more entered into my soul. What! after all my toil, my watching, my sufferings; after having bartered my salvation for this mess of pottage, should my boy be cast adrift upon the world when the old man died, and not inherit a penny of the money he had been taught to consider rightfully as his own? Never. Perish rather and die. Die! The word haunted my brain and rang in my years—die! Who should die but he, the old miser? Then a terrible resolve got possession of me, and I dressed myself and went out. The history of that evening is known to you all. I was the woman who met Mr. Kavanagh Vere street; I was the women who entered the chemist's shop and the poison; I was the woman who sent the money to James Ball and bade him not identify me. I saw the meeting between Mr. Atherton, whom I hated, and Mr. Kavanagh, whom I hated also, because he was his friend. I heard the whole of their conversation and then the future opened out to me, lighted by the flames of hell. I went home; and scarcely had I arrived when first Lister came, and then Hugh Atherton. I heard them talking together; I heard my son say he trouble about money, and that he was going to ask for some. That was well. I had poisoned the old man's mind, and told him days before that Atherton was leading Lister into extravagance; that [{239}] only my son had gained Miss Leslie's affections, he should never have come upon Mr. Thorneley's for a son. He was irritated against his nephew; this evening was the crisis. What I have related explains his words to Mr. Atherton.
"At nine o'clock I took up his usual refreshment. Ale was poured out in a glass, and into the ale poured out I emptied the paper of strychnine bought at the chemist's. Strangely enough, I did it unobserved by Barker. He little thought there was need to watch me. Strangely, too, Mr. Atherton never noticed that I spoke to Lister as I left the study. I said to him in a low voice: 'Don't give your uncle his ale to-night; let him get it himself'.' The results were what I foresaw. Lister never stirred, and Mr. Atherton handed the glass to his uncle. I put the paper in the pocket of Mr. Atherton's overcoat as I passed through the hall on my way down.
"In the night I went into the dead man's room, took his keys, sought and found the will in the escritoire in his study. Mine were the footsteps heard on the stairs by the cook. I took the will and concealed it up in my bedroom, effectually as I thought; but it seems not. This is the history of that night of the 23d of October last; this is the mystery of Gilbert Thorneley's death. He was murdered by me."
The feeble voice ceased, and the weary head sank lower upon the hello. We thought the end had come, and both priest and surgeon hastened to the dying woman's side. But it was not so; her task was not yet done. After an interval of many minutes she rallied again. Whilst she had spoken Wilmot gave no sign, save that one shuddering movement. I had rapidly taken down her confession in shorthand, standing just as we had entered, grouped at a little distance from the bed; and when she was silent I looked round at her son beside me. There he stood with his arms folded, motionless and rigid, his eyes fixed on the ground, his lips drawn tightly together, set and firm, and a dark heavy frown upon his brow. His face was deadly pale. "God move his heart," I inwardly prayed as I looked at him; for it was like gazing on a block of granite. Presently I heard Father Maurice say to her, "Are you able to speak without pain? You have said all that is necessary."
"No, no!" she replied, "not all;" and turned her face, on which the shadow of death was gathering fast, toward us once more. How long she had been unburdening her soul we had taken no count, and the grey dawn was stealing in at the window as she spoke again. It was opposite the bed.
"Will you undraw that curtain, sister?" she said; "I should like to look once more upon the sky before I die. It is very long since I dared to lift my face to it without dread; there seemed to be an eye looking down upon me with such terrible anger. It is gone now, the great fear. Can this be peace that is stealing over me? Peace for such as I?"
Father Maurice stooped down and spoke to her in a low tone, and I saw her hands fold together and her lips move. In a few moments she spoke once more. Her mind was wandering. "Robert! where is my boy?" and she started forward. "It is growing dark; why doesn't he come? Lister!"